


One Last Fling

by takethesky87



Category: Agent Carter (Marvel Short Film), Agent Carter (TV), Indiana Jones Series
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Dancing, F/M, Flirting, pre-SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takethesky87/pseuds/takethesky87
Summary: “What did you say your mystery man does for a living?” Howard asks, making himself a plate.“He’s a professor.” She scans the room, searching for a particular pair of broad shoulders. “Of archaeology.”





	One Last Fling

**Author's Note:**

> This is an unfinished piece I wrote back in 2015. I am probably never going to complete it, because all my ideas are apparently novel-length ... but hopefully others can enjoy it for what it is. I had a lot of fun writing this one.

“I should have known you were serious when you said to bring a swimsuit,” Peggy says.

Howard grins from the pool and looks at her over his sunglasses. “If you need one, there are spares in the pool house.”

“Of course there are.” Peggy places her purse on the concrete and settles into a lounge chair at the edge of the water. She leans back, stretching out, crossing her ankles. “Is this how SHIELD operates, then? Issuing orders from the company pool, martini in hand?”

“Well, Director,” Howard says, “that depends on you, doesn’t it?”

\---

They sort through personnel files on Howard’s balcony as the light fades. When a breeze begins to rustle the papers, they move inside, where Howard pours his third drink of the evening and Peggy’s second. She drops to Howard’s sofa and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“When did you say Colonel Phillips was coming?”

“Next week.” Howard hands her a glass and sits next to her, propping his feet on the coffee table. “This is hopeless, Peg. We can’t make these decisions without him.” He takes a long swig of bourbon, licking his lips. “Let’s do something fun.”

She rolls her eyes, but gives him a sly twist of her mouth. “Such as?”

His eyes twinkle. He springs from the sofa, heading to another stack of files piled next to the drinks cart. Crouching, he thumbs through them before sliding out a folder and carrying it back. He tosses it in Peggy’s lap and collapses next to her again. 

“There’s been some chatter out of London,” he says as she flips through the file. “A group calling themselves Pendragon. Word is, they’re causing mayhem, leaving bodies—looking for some kind of weapon.”

Peggy lifts a brow. “This is your idea of fun?”

“A vacation in London with a gal like you? That’s the best kind of fun.”

She places her glass on the coffee table and sighs. “We can’t just pop out and run a mission by ourselves, Howard.”

“Sure we can. The jet’s fueled and ready when you are.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She pushes the folder onto the table and stands, arms akimbo. “We have agents to recruit, paperwork to fill out—”

“And we can’t do half of it without Phillips.” He gazes up at her, eyes round and impish. “Come on. Just one week. The Peggy I know could complete a mission like this in half that time, with both hands tied behind her back.”

It’s aimed straight at her ego, Peggy knows that. But she has to admit, the idea is tempting: one last fling in the field before the weight of the world rests on her shoulders. Peggy glances down at the file where it lies open on the coffee table and frowns.

“I’d feel a lot better if we knew more about this Pendragon business.” She drifts back to the sofa, dragging the edge of the folder closer to her. “An allusion to Arthur Pendragon, do you think?”

“Who?”

“King Arthur. Camelot, Knights of the Round Table?”

“Oh. Right.” Howard huddles into her personal space, reading over her shoulder. “Does this mean we’re doing this?”

“I may know someone who could help,” she says, pretending not to hear him. “Or send us in the right direction, at least.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Doubtful. I met him in the OSS.” She bites her lip. The Pendragon name could mean nothing, but it wouldn’t hurt to know for sure. She turns to look at Howard, their noses almost touching, and tosses him a grin. “How quickly can that jet of yours get us to Connecticut?”

\---

Howard leads her on his arm into the antiques gallery. The lights are dim, spotlit displays flanking the white walls, and a six-piece band plays in a corner. Peggy and Howard skirt the edge of the crowded dance floor and head for the hors d’oeuvres.

“What did you say your mystery man does for a living?” Howard asks, making himself a plate.

“He’s a professor.” She scans the room, searching for a particular pair of broad shoulders. “Of archaeology.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Howard holds up his plate. “Shrimp cocktail?”

She ignores him, her eyes having found their target. His tuxedo is a little worse for wear, and his shoes are scuffed—but the slim contour of his waist where the button cinches is enough to remind her how very stupid an idea this was. For three long seconds she considers taking Howard’s elbow and walking them out of the museum, pretending none of this ever happened. But then Indiana Jones catches her eye, and she has no choice but to go through with it.

Peggy smoothes a wrinkle out of one of her long gloves and says to Howard, “Bring me a drink in twenty minutes.” Then she glides away from the table of food, pauses at a stone cross under glass, and feigns interest in it.

She has studied two display cases and a complete set of chainmail armor before she senses him behind her. He touches a warm hand to her arm. Peggy closes her eyes for a moment before tilting her head toward her shoulder, allowing a demure smile to cross her face.

“I didn’t think you were much of a patron of the arts,” he says.

She turns fully to face him. Surprise still cuts deep into the creases around his eyes, just as it had when he first noticed her across the room. She reaches for the hand on her arm and holds it there, running her gloved thumb over his knuckles. “We all have our hobbies. Are you going to ask me to dance, Dr. Jones?”

He flashes a smirk. “Only if you say yes.”

“Then you’re in luck.” She draws his hand away from her shoulder but doesn’t let go. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

They saunter into the center of the dance floor. Jones cups his hand around her waist as she places hers against his back. They fall into an easy step, their faces close as slow, melancholy notes drift above them.

Jones’s breath is warm on her cheek. Peggy lets her gaze wander over the shadow on his chin, the tanned tint to his complexion, but is careful to avoid his eyes. 

His mouth twitches. “You wore the green dress.”

“It’s a good color on me.”

“I was going to ask if this was for business or pleasure, but now I don’t have to.”

She risks an upward glance. “Oh?”

“The green dress means business.”

“It can mean both,” she hears herself say. 

A crinkle of his eyes. “I’ve heard rumors coming out of New York. A new agency. I don’t suppose you know anything about that.”

Peggy smiles. The music swells, and she steps outward, twirling twice before closing the space between them again. Jones, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat, his hand a confident weight on her hip.

“Speaking of rumors,” she says, nodding to a display case over Jones’s shoulder, “your museum seems to think that sword is the Excalibur.”

Jones looks back long enough to note the glass case positioned next to the set of chainmail, the sword hilt glittering beneath a spotlight. When he meets Peggy’s eyes again, his eyebrows are raised. “The one and only.”

“You don’t honestly believe it’s real, do you?”

“I recovered it myself. It’s real.” His expression changes. “But something tells me you already knew that.”

She smiles again. “The London Blitz." The song comes to an end; they pause, still intertwined, hovering together at the edge of the dance floor. “You found it beneath St. Paul’s Cathedral, at the end of an underground river.”

Jones blinks. Peggy hums under her breath. “You were quite drunk when you told me about it. The Marseilles mission. Do you remember?”

He groans, laughing. “I’ve tried to forget most of that night.”

“Not all of it, I hope,” she says softly.

Jones looks at her. Mentally, Peggy kicks herself, her ears prickling as a flush crawls up her neck. The impulse to run catches hold of her again, but Jones’s fingers laced with hers keeps her still. She spots Howard out of the corner of her eye and stifles a sigh of relief.

“Peggy, you are a sight to behold on the dance floor,” Howard says upon reaching them. He holds a champagne flute in each hand and offers one to her. His eyes flick to Jones, whose fingers loosen from Peggy’s. “I hope you know you’re a lucky guy.”

“The lucky one doesn’t get the green dress,” says Jones.

He drops his hands, adjusting his cuffs. Peggy’s hip turns cold where his palm had been. Clearing her throat, she takes the champagne from Howard, who lifts a puzzled eyebrow, first at Jones, then at Peggy.

“Howard,” Peggy says, ignoring the question in his look, “may I introduce Dr. Indiana Jones. Jones, this is—”

“Howard Stark, yes.” He shakes Howard’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Stark.”

“Hopefully only good things.”

“I followed your trial a while back,” Jones admits. 

Howard sighs, tilting his head back to finish off his champagne. “I suppose I deserve that.” He waves the empty glass at the pieces on display. “Your college has quite the collection. Peggy tells me you teach archaeology?”

“That’s right. Our medieval collection is one of the finest in the country.” He crosses his arms, his gaze returning to Peggy. “You have questions about the Excalibur.”

“I have questions about who else was after it. Does the name Pendragon mean anything to you?”

“You mean beyond the connotations with King Arthur, of course.” He narrows his eyes. “While looking for the sword, I had a run-in with a group calling themselves the Cult of Morgana. It’s possible they have allies. Or enemies.”

Peggy nods. “Whatever the case, someone who fancies Arthurian legend is in London, looking for a weapon.”

“And leaving a trail of bodies behind,” Howard adds.

Jones takes a breath, unfolding his arms and sliding his hands into his pockets. “They could be searching for any number of weapons from the lore. The list is long.”

“I’m sure you could narrow it down,” Peggy says, sipping her champagne.

A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You know, I don’t do favors for just anybody.”

“And I don’t ask for them lightly.”

“No, you don’t.” He considers her. “This new agency, the one I’ve heard rumors about. What’s it called?”

She hesitates, the name still an odd, new shape on her tongue. “SHIELD.”

“SHIELD.” For a moment, his eyes slide toward the sword under glass. “If you’re trying to recruit me, I’m not interested.”

Peggy shakes her head. “Not a recruitment. Just a favor, as you said.”

Jones sighs, long and heavy, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I.”

“That’s the spirit, pal,” says Howard, clapping Jones on the back. He grins at the eyebrow Jones raises in response. “So, where do we start?”

Peggy smiles into her champagne glass, her ears still warm, and thinks how very much she’s going to regret this, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Indiana Jones did indeed retrieve the Excalibur, and he went up against the Cult of Morgana to do so -- according to a short comic called "[Indiana Jones and the Sword of Excalibur](http://indianajones.wikia.com/wiki/Indiana_Jones_and_the_Sword_of_Excalibur)."
> 
> I imagined Peggy's "business dress" looking like [this](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/00/e5/97/00e59726d0cf93fa67ac9a46684e8c66.jpg), except in a dark emerald green instead of blue, and with long matching gloves.


End file.
